'Well, yeah. But you can handle it, eh? The Fighting Irish?'
Simon attempted a weak smile. Then said:
'Tell me about the case, Bob. I need…distraction. What have you found, lately?'
Loosening his tie, Sanderson asked the driver to open the window. Cooler air refreshed the car. He said:
'We got some interesting leads on GenoMap. There's a Namibian connection. One of GenoMap's biggest sponsors was a Namibian diamond company, Kellerman Namcorp.'
'I remember Fazackerly mentioned them. So? '
'Seemed a bit odd to me. When I thought about it. A bleeding diamond company? What's that got to do with genetics? So I got a bod at the Yard to track down one of the scientists from GenoMap. A Chinese Canadian, Alex Zhenrong. We found him back in Vancouver. And he told us…quite a lot.'
They were passing the Regent's Park mosque. Its golden dome glittered half heartedly in the uncertain sunshine.
'Like what?'
'Like…a lot. He told us GenoMap found it hard getting people to fund the lab, at first, after what happened at Stanford.'
'But Kellerman were…keen?'
'They came on board after a year, and they were very keen indeed. Superfuckingduper keen. The only ones. Apparently they poured money into the lab. For several years. Genomics is not cheap but GenoMap got every machine they wanted. From Kellerman Namcorp.'
'And they are exactly? This corporation?'
'Diamonds, like I said. Big aggressive multinational, mining and export. They're up there with De Beers. They run their own part of Namibia, the Sperrgebiet. The Forbidden Zone. The owners are a very old Jewish family, South African. Jewish Dynasty.'
'Why were they so determined to finance the lab?'
'Because of Fazackerly and Nairn. According to Zhenrong anyway.'
'Say again?'
'Fazackerly was the best geneticist in Britain two decades ago. Big reputation. Nairn was maybe the best young geneticist in the world. Kellerman wanted their brains. And Kellerman wanted their results.'
'So that was good for GenoMap.'
Sanderson nodded. He glanced out of his window as they overtook a double decker bus. Crowded with shoppers.
'Yeah, but — so Zhenrong told us — Kellerman also wanted bangs for their bucks. They wanted some payoff for all that investment. So they pushed the research in…a certain way…If you see what I mean.'
'No. I don't…'
A brief silence. The journalist looked around the interior of the police car. So calm and sensible and ordinary. So unlike the interior of his mind.
Sanderson explained.
'By the end, it seems Nairn and Fazackerly weren't just investigating genetic diversity in the way…you are supposed to.'
'Explain?'
'I'm no molecular biologist, Quinn, as you might have twigged. But my understanding is this. The initial idea behind GenoMap was…meant to be medical. Finding cures for diseases, through differering racial genetics.' Sanderson shook his head. 'That's why Alex Zhenrong joined, anyhow. But by the end, with Nathan Kellerman's strong encouragement, Fazackerly and Nairn, according to this Zhenrong lad, were just looking for genetic differences, full stop. They wanted to find and prove that there are large and serious genetic differences between human races. You understand.'
'Next stop Josef Goebbels.'
'Yup. Maybe.'
'In which case…You reckon they are, or were, racist? Nairn and Fazackerly. A couple of Nazis? Fits with Tomasky.'
He shivered at the memory of the Polish policeman, teeth bared in rage; he looked across the car.
'Nope.' Sanderson shook his head. 'We don't think Angus was racist. According to all his mates, and Zhenrong, he just wanted to be famous, to be published. He was ambitious, that's all. Apparently he was pretty eccentric, as well as very smart. But he, at least, was not a Nazi.' Sanderson leaned a little closer to Simon, across the front seat of the car. 'And we think he and Fazackerly may have been onto something quite astounding by the end. Though they wouldn't tell anyone what it was. But it must've been something that the Kellermans really wanted.'
'So how do you know about it?'
'Fazackerly started boasting about it! In his cups.' Sanderson mimed a drinking hand. 'Zhenrong says Fazackerly was a terrible boozer. There was a genomics conference in Perpignan about six months ago when Fazackerly got ratarsed. And he told everyone that him and Nairn, they were gonna publish something that would amaze everyone, that would make Eugen Fischer look like a nonce. That's not how Zhenrong phrased it, by the way, that's me.'
'Eugen Fischer? I heard that name. Recently.' Simon frowned. Exhausted by the mystery. 'The young guy in France, Martinez, he mentioned him.'
'That right? Well, Fischer was a race scientist. Worked in Namibia, and then for Hitler, one of the founders of eugenics. A real bastard. Thought Germans were supermen.'
'Namibia.'
'Namibia.'
'I remember…' Simon said, 'I remember there was, ah, a picture in Fazackerly's office of Francis Galton. He was a eugenicist…and he worked in Namibia.'
'You see?' Sanderson was broadly smiling. 'It all connects. The Namibian Connection! I'm only telling you all this because you had a detective sargeant's premolar embedded in your face this morning. Please keep shtoom for now. I guess you will wanna write a book when we're done, won't you?'
Simon found himself blushing.
'Hah.' Sanderson chuckled. 'Fucking writers can't resist. Make sure you give me a good haircut. Six foot two. Strong jaw. You know. And here's another thing. Nathan Kellerman, the Jewish heir to all those diamond billions, he and Nairn became very close. Kellerman and Nairn would have these…chinwags, apparently, when he used to come and visit London, see how money was being spent.'
'Conversations?'
'Yes. About the Bible.' Sanderson shrugged. 'The Curse of Canaan. Genesis 3 or whatever. Zhenrong listened in. Sometimes. To their…chats.'
'The doctrine of the Serpent Seed? The Curse of Cain?'
'Yeah. All the stuff you got from Winyard. Odd, eh?'
'When you say he and Kellerman were close…how close?'
'Well they weren't boyfriends. But a couple of years back Nairn started visiting Namibia.'
The car was now stalled on Baker Street. The sun was properly out; the streets were lively with people. Three Arab wives in turquoise hijabs were walking several paces behind the husband — attired in jeans and baseball cap.
'Right. And?'
'It's a pretty expensive place to go, the other side of the world. Nairn wasn't rich.'
Simon saw the clear light of logic.
'Kellerman paid for his trips!'
'Yup. We're pretty sure he paid, because Nairn went several times, in three years. Never told anyone why or what he did there.'
'Holidays?'
Sanderson's expression narrowed. 'Long way to go surfing.'
'You believe he's in Namibia now, don't you?'
The DCI smiled with a trace of smugness. 'I do. I even tried writing to him, on his email address. See if I
